


daughter of the rain and snow

by mountainsbeyondmountains



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Lightbringer, Nissa Nissa - Freeform, Post-War for the Dawn, Season 8, The Long Night, The Prince who was Promised, The War for the Dawn, azor azhai, night queen???, remember when I used to write fun lighthearted one-shots?, those were the days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-18 03:57:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18112802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mountainsbeyondmountains/pseuds/mountainsbeyondmountains
Summary: "And the sights were as stark as my baby, and the cold cut as sharp as my baby, and the night were as dark as my baby. Half as beautiful too."- Hozier





	daughter of the rain and snow

**THE PRINCESS**

_ The Long Night _

At the hour of the wolf, there’s a knock at the door. Soft, slightly unsteady, but still insistent enough that the sound wakes Sansa from half-hearted sleep. She sits up in bed, eyes adjusting to the shadows- the Lord’s Chamber is dark, except for a small fire in the hearth. There’s another knock. Stronger this time. Whoever it is, they’re clearly determined to see her, and won’t be turned away. 

For a moment, Sansa hesitates. There are so many enemies inside Winterfell now, and even worse, there are so many people whose loyalties she’s unsure of. But she doubts someone with ill intent would have made it past her guards at the end of the hall without the noise disturbing her, and besides, an adversary wouldn’t bother to knock. They’d have already forced their way inside. So Sansa pulls her fur-lined cloak over her nightgown and rises from the bed.

Jon is waiting for her. He stumbles slightly as the door swings open, as if he’d been leaning his weight against it. Sansa instinctively opens her arms to catch him, but he manages to right himself on his own. “Jon, what are you doing here?” she asks. “Is something wrong?”

A thousand possible calamities are already running through her mind- there might have been another fight between the Essosi and the northerners, or Cersei might have sent soldiers north. Maybe Daenerys lost control of her dragon, and someone’s been hurt. Or worse still- Daenerys  _ didn’t  _ lose control of her dragon, but someone is still hurt. Maybe even dead.

But Jon shakes his head, and her fears subside. They don’t retreat entirely, but Sansa has grown used to constantly looking over her shoulder. She’s come to accept that to be alive now is to be afraid. 

“Why are you here?” she asks. “You should be resting. You have to fight in the morning.”   
“There won’t be a morning. We’re in the long night now. Like Old Nan’s legends,” he tells her. “But it doesn’t matter- I need to talk to you.”

Sansa opens the door wider, and gestures that Jon should come inside. He hesitates slightly before stepping into the Lord’s Chamber, and once he’s inside, he doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself. Whatever sense of urgency carried him to her door in the middle of the night abandons him. So Sansa takes the lead, urges him to sit down at the table where she keeps her ledgers and records. She asks him, “How much time do you think we have? Before they come?”   
“I don’t know. After the last skirmish, the Night King hasn’t got a dragon anymore-”

“And Daenerys only has one now.”

“Well, it might be better that way,” Jon admits. “But the Night King is on foot, and the dead move slow. We have some time to prepare.”

“The evacuations to Castle Cerwyn are going smoothly enough. Most of our food supplies will be out of the line of fire, and those who can’t fight will be safe.”   
“Thank you,” he sighs. Sitting close to the fire like they are, Sansa can see just how exhausted he is. His eyes are deep-set wells, his mouth carved in a permanent frown. She remembers the night of their first reunion, when he’d confessed,  _ I’m tired of fighting.  _ And what had she done? Forced him to take up his sword again.

She says, “I hope you didn’t come here to discuss battle plans. We both know I’m useless at that.”   
“You’re not useless. I just-- I wanted to talk to you. We’ve scarcely seen each other since I returned from the south.”

It’s true. As carefully as she might set a game of cyvasse, Sansa has arranged it so that there’s always someone between them. It didn’t matter who- Davos, Lord Tyrion, Brienne, Varys, even Daenerys. Ever since Bran’s revelation about who their brother truly is, Sansa has been afraid of what she might do or say if she’s left alone with Jon for too long. She doesn’t admit this now, though. Instead, she tells him, “We’ve both been busy. That’s all.”

“I wanted the chance to say goodbye to you. That’s why I came here,” Jon confesses. 

“Goodbye?”

Concentrating so intently that Sansa could almost believe he’s experiencing some kind of vision in the flames, Jon resolutely stares at the flickering hearth and says, “Aye. If I should fall tomorrow-”

“ _ Don’t  _ talk about dying.”

“We have to. Tomorrow is our last chance. We have enough strength to muster for a final battle, but after that… If we fail to kill the Night King then, it’s over. You need to gather as many people as you can, take them to White Harbor, and sail to Essos. You’re the only person I can trust to make sure anyone survives, Sansa.”

“You’re giving up,” she accuses.

“No. I plan to fight until my last breath-”

“You think you’re going to die tomorrow. Even if we win the war, you don’t think you’ll live through it. You think you’ll fall, on the battlefield.” 

He doesn’t bother trying to lie. “I shouldn’t be alive. I died. If it wasn’t for Melisandre, I would have been burned on a pyre, or left somewhere beyond the Wall for the crows to pick at. And even before then- how many people died, because my parents were young, and foolish, and thought they were in love? Your father should have just let Robert drive a sword through me.”

Sansa reaches out and tries to take hold of his burned hand, which lies still on the table between them. The moment she touches him, though, he flinches like he can still feel the fire from so long ago, and withdraws his hand. “Jon, look at me.” But he refuses to, even when she moves to stand before him. So she takes his face in her hands, and gently, but resolutely, forces him to meet her eyes. “You’re not going to die. I won’t allow it. You’re going to fight, as hard as you can. You’re going to kill the Night King. You’re going to win. And then you’re going to come home to us. Home to  _ me _ .”

Jon raises his burned hand and clasps it to hers, holding her hand against his cheek. At last, he looks at her. He gazes at her the way he did when he came back to Winterfell, the same way he did when he left. He gazes at her the way he did on the ramparts, with the snow falling all around them. He gazes at her the way he did in the tent, the night before the battle against the Boltons, when she told him she wouldn’t be taken alive. “Sansa, you have to know-- you have to know that-- after I came back, I was ready to give up. I didn’t care whether I lived or died until you  _ forced _ me to care. We’re standing here because of you. You’re the reason-- you have to know--”

“I know,” she whispers. “Trust me, Jon. I know.”

“When did you realize? Was it when Bran--?”

“Before that. I think it may have started the first moment I saw you again.”

She keeps a tight hold on his burned hand and urges him to his feet. She leads him to the bed. “You need to rest,” she coaxes, and pulls him atop the furs. She runs her fingers through his hair, but otherwise lies as straight and still as a dead woman. He curls up against her like a child needing comfort from a nightmare. He clutches at the lambswool of her nightgown, and lays his head on her sternum. Eventually, he lets her heartbeat lull him to sleep.

 

**THE WOLF**

_ Spring _

The path to Castle Black is strewn with flowers. The ground is covered in them; Arya can hardly take a step forward without crushing some blossom underfoot. She recognizes some of them from her childhood- monkshood, fireweed, laurel, cinquefoil. They all used to bloom in Winterfell during the spring. But most of the other names elude her. 

If Sansa were here, she would know. She always knew that sort of thing. Arya can remember the way her sister used to weave flower crowns for all of them, even for the wolves. Nymeria would toss her head until the circlet landed in the dirt, and even when Arya tried to be careful with hers, it would always end up ruined. 

For a moment, Arya wants to stay still. To rest in this meadow and listen to the birdsong. She doesn’t want to tread on any more flowers. The poor little things are only trying to survive. But then again, so is she, and to do so, she has to move on. So she does, without too much remorse. 

She walks alone. She left Gendry back at the place where they camped last night. He’ll hunt small game, and whittle, and otherwise make himself busy until she returns. He understands that this is a journey she has to undertake on her own. He also knows that, with Needle in her fist and with the Valyrian steel dagger strapped to her hip, Arya can take care of herself.

Suddenly the guilt comes on, as cold and sharp as any blade digging into her.  _ You should have been there, you should have protected her. She didn’t know how to wield a knife or swing a sword, she couldn’t defend herself-  _

Arya takes a deep breath and waits for the feeling to recede. It won’t pass; it never does. She’s learned that, these past few months since the winter and the war ended. But she’s also learned that the pain will lessen, eventually, even when she’s certain it will kill her. She keeps breathing. She keeps walking.

All that remains of Castle Black is scaffolding and a few spires. What was once a fortress is now only an abandoned ruin. It’s surrounded by the rubble of the Wall, though the great shards of ice are melting, slowly but surely in the spring sunlight. There are no signs of life here, except the flowers and the birdsong, but Arya decides to step into what once must have been the heart of Castle Black, and finds a stone to rest on while she waits. 

It’s not yet dark when he comes back. “Hello, Jon,” she says. He doesn’t startle at the sound. He’s not scared. He defeated death itself- why would he be frightened of one little girl?

“Arya,” he greets her, voice raspy from lack of use. He doesn’t move out from the shadows of the entryway, so she goes to meet him. When she hugs him, she can feel how thin he’s become, and when she drags him into the light, she can see how little he takes care of himself now. His hair is long, his beard is wild, and he’s still wearing the clothes she last saw him in- plain black armor he donned for the battle, lacking any Stark or Targaryen sigils, as well as the cloak Sansa made for him.

“You look like a wildling,” Arya says.

Jon doesn’t answer. He removes his sword belt and leans Longclaw against the shelter wall. He arranges some logs and tinder in a fire pit, then strikes a flint until a spark catches. “I suppose you’ll want something to eat,” he says. “I caught a few rabbits today, and gathered some plants in the woods.”

“That’ll be good.” They’re both quiet as she helps him prepare it. It’s not until they’re both sitting down again, tearing into the meal and warming themselves by the fire that she speaks again to ask, “Where’s Ghost?”

“Off. Somewhere. He wanders.” 

“Is that what you’re doing here, Jon? Wandering?”

“If I am, I’m not doing a very good job at it. Didn’t seem to take you long to find me.”

“When are you coming home?”

He deflects with a question of his own: “Why did you come here, Arya?”

“Me and Gendry… we’ve decided to go east. We’re going to board a ship at White Harbor, and land in Braavos first. I don’t know how long we’ll stay. We both want to see the world. Have adventures. Might even go all the way to Asshai. But I want you to come with us, Jon.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not? There’s nothing here for you. Nothing south, either. Daenerys and Cersei are still at war. They seem hell-bent on turning all Seven Kingdoms into ash, but no matter which one of them ends up sitting her pretty arse on the Iron Throne, I don’t want to be around as one of her subjects. I doubt you want to either. So come with us. You can have a new life in Essos.”

Jon stares into the flames as he says, “I don’t want a new life. Why should I get a new life, when Bran, and Tormund, and Edd, and Davos, and Podrick, and Brienne, and-” He stops himself suddenly and shudders. “None of them got a second chance, and they all deserved it far more than I do.”

“So you’re just going to torture yourself forever, then?” Arya has to fight the urge to grab her brother by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. “I can’t believe you’re giving up. We’ve  _ all _ lost people, Jon. Every single one of us. But that doesn’t mean we all retreat to the edge of the world and wait to die. You keep going, no matter what. The  _ last  _ thing you do is give up.”

There’s a familiar expression in Jon’s eyes. Arya has seen it countless times before: from Polliver, from Meryn Trant, from Walder Frey, from the Red Woman. It’s the same every time she crosses a name off her list. There’s always a flicker of surrender, the briefest moment of peace before they breathed their last, and that look is in Jon’s eyes now. 

“Go to White Harbor. Get on that ship,” he urges her. “You and Gendry deserve your second chance. Go make your new life. Have adventures. Find some happiness.”

“I can’t just leave you here.”

Jon has nothing to say to that, so the two of them sit in silence. Arya hugs her knees to her chest; it’s colder here than it was at Winterfell. “I wish I’d seen the Wall when it was standing,” she says. “Uncle Benjen always told us how breathtaking it was. I wish I’d been able to go to the top and look at the view at the edge of the world.”

“I took Sansa to the top, once,” Jon says. 

At the mention of her sister’s name, the guilt begins to flay Arya. She can tell that Jon’s feeling it too, like a noose around his neck. Perhaps that’s what keeps him tethered to this lonely place. 

He asks her, “Do you ever wonder why we never found a body?”

“Jon, don’t start this again.”

“We should have made her leave with the others. She shouldn’t have stayed at Winterfell. She would have been safe if we forced her to leave, for her own good.”

“There was no  _ forcing  _ Sansa to do anything. It doesn’t do you any good to agonize over it. It’s done. She’s dead.”

“Then why didn’t we ever find a body?” 

A reflection of the firelight gleams in Jon’s eyes, and Arya knows that it’s her task to extinguish this hope before it consumes him. She doesn’t temper her words with sweetness, the way Sansa might have. “It doesn’t matter. She  _ died,  _ Jon. She died, and the Night King turned her into a wight, and then she died again, for good this time, when you killed him. Drogon probably burned her bones.”

For a long time, there’s only the wind between them. To Arya, it almost sounds like a woman howling with grief. 

Finally, Jon murmurs, “She was a Stark. She should have been buried in the crypts.”

“Are you going to make me come all the way back here and bury  _ you  _ someday?”

“They might come back, you know. The Others.” Jon casts a glance at Longclaw, leaning against the wall. “Someone needs to be here if they do.”

“They’re not going to come back. The war is over.”

“That’s what our ancestors thought last time.” 

Arya doesn’t know how to how to reach her brother.  _ Sansa would know what to say.  _ She’d always been able to wear down people’s defenses, convince them to do what she wanted, to get them to lay their swords at her feet. Arya knows how to force her way through a locked door, how to lie without batting an eye, how to kill her enemies in a thousand painful ways. But she can’t defeat Jon’s grief for him, no matter how hard she tries. 

The world has donned its mourning clothes by the time Arya realizes that there will be no convincing Jon. She knows it’ll only get darker, and colder from here on out, and she wants to return to Gendry before nightfall. Arya never used to be afraid of the dark, not even when she was blind, but ever since the war ended, she’s realized how easy it is for the shadows to snatch someone and never give them back. 

“We’re not camped too far away,” she tells Jon. “We’ll wait tomorrow morning before setting out. You can come and find us.”

“You don’t need to do that,” he replies. Then he hugs her, just like he did years ago, the first time he went to Castle Black and she went south. 

Arya lets go first. She wraps a hand around Needle’s pommel, the same way she’s always done when in need of comfort, and commands herself not to cry. Her eyes are hot and stinging as she whispers, “Goodbye,” but she keeps her chin high and refuses to let the tears slide down her cheeks. 

“Goodbye, Arya. You know where to find me.”

She walks slowly as she makes her way through the ruins and into the forest. She can’t help but hope that Jon will try and catch up with her. He doesn’t. Eventually, the silhouette of the decaying castle bleeds into the night, and the light of Jon’s campfire is no brighter than that of a distant star. Arya stops looking back. She stops crying, because she’s not some stupid little girl. 

She walks alone.

She keeps walking.

 

**THE SPIDER** **  
** _ The Long Night _

There are three whores standing before him, giggling and whispering to each other. One has dark hair, one is more fair, and the other has russet locks. The melody of some old song runs through Varys’ mind:  _ I loved a maid as fair as summer with sunlight in her hair, I loved a maid as red as autumn with sunset in her hair, I loved a maid as white as winter with moon glow in her hair.  _

Some might think it peculiar, that a eunuch would summon three whores to his bedchamber. Then again, Varys’ little birds report that whores frequent the Unsullied camp quite often. Apparently the soldiers want the girls to simply hold them. Varys can’t blame them- if there were ever a night to pay for the pleasure of someone’s company, to fulfill the longing to be held in another’s arms, it would be tonight. The night before the world is supposed to end. 

The dark-haired girl is the boldest of the three; she speaks first. “We did just like you asked, m’lord. Went to his chambers, offered ourselves to him.”

“But it wasn’t any use. He wouldn’t have any of it,” the blond says. “I think it’s true what they say- his cock must’ve frozen off while he was at the Wall.”

“No, he just didn’t take to you two,” the redhead objects. “Thought you were ugly. But he liked  _ me.  _ Kissed me some. He especially liked my hair. Kept touching it.”

The other two begin to protest, but Varys coughs slightly and asks, “To be clear- none of you bedded the king in the north?”

“Not a king anymore, is he?” the dark-haired one laughs. “But no. The white wolf remains undefiled by the likes of us.”

Varys thanks the girls for their pains, gives them some coin, and waves them away. Once they’ve left the chamber, he turns toward the corner of the room and asks, “Well? Are you satisfied?”

The red priestess slowly moves out of the darkness, toward the glow of the hearth. She stands close enough that the flames threaten to consume her red robes and turn her into an effigy, but she seems unafraid. She leans into the heat like she would a lover’s touch.

Varys could have never anticipated he would join forces with a fanatic, but the end of the days seems to have made the strangest of bedfellows: who could have ever predicted that Starks, Lannisters, and Targaryens would one day all be allied under the same roof? 

“It was an enlightening exchange,” Melisandre finally responds. 

“Is the queen so jealous?” Varys asks. “That she would have you send bedwarmers to test her paramour’s loyalty?”

“I did not ask you to do this on Daenerys Targaryen’s command. I was following the will of the Lord of Light.”

“You made it seem like you were carrying out the queen’s orders. I know you’ve been spending much time in her company lately. I wouldn’t have helped you if I’d known it was only for your god.”

“Which is why I did not tell you,” Melisandre admits. “But what we’ve done here will aid Daenerys, as it will aid all of the living. I am only playing my small role in the great war.”

“You think that you’re saving the world? Tell me, how will knowledge of who the bastard of Winterfell fucks, or doesn’t fuck, help us win the great war?”

Melisandre serenely allows his derision to wash over her. “Are you familiar with the legend of Azor Azhai?”

Varys refuses to spend what could very well be his last night alive listening to a zealot’s senseless stories. When he tells her to leave, Melisandre doesn’t attempt to argue; she merely drapes her cowl around her face, and silently sweeps out of the room in a blaze of red. 

He doesn’t pray, and he can’t sleep, and he has no interest in seeking comfort in the arms of a whore, so Varys does what he always does: he thinks, and plans, and schemes. He’s not so concerned with the great war. Someone needs to worry about what disaster awaits Westeros if they all  _ survive _ . 

 

**THE CRONE**

_ The Long Night _

As she leaves Varys’ chamber, Melisandre adopts her true form. It’s safer this way. No one pays any mind to an old crook-backed woman, mumbling to herself as she wanders through the halls of Winterfell. When she approaches Daenerys’ chambers, however, she restores the illusion. The queen’s guards recognize her youthful guise, and let her through without suspicion. 

Daenerys Targaryen sits before the fire, curled up in a chair, wrapped in furs. She barely stirs as the door creaks open, and only spares Melisandre the most cursory of glances when she sits down beside her. Her unwashed hair hangs loose and limp, and her eyes are as red and wet as an open wound. Melisandre cannot empathize this girl who wants to be queen. Daenerys may claim that the dragons are her children, but at least one still remains to her. Even if the beast is killed tomorrow, the loss will not be so great. It only means that Daenerys will be forced to be like everyone else; Melisandre cannot find any room in her heart to pity that. 

Still, she needs something from the mother of dragons, so she says to the girl, “Your Grace, I must offer my condolences. Your grief must be unimaginable.”

“Viserys and Rhaegal are both gone now. And Drogon might die tomorrow,” Daenerys murmurs. “I’ve killed my children in a hopeless war, and all the while Cersei Lannister sits on  _ my  _ throne.”

“You are so strong, your Grace, to endure in the face of such hardship.”

“I’m the princess who was promised. That’s what you said. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“In our darkest hour, the Lord of Light’s plan may seem utterly unknown to us. But he has shown me what is to pass. You  _ are  _ the princess who was promised. You  _ will  _ defeat the Night King with the help of your dragon. You  _ will  _ bring the dawn. You  _ will  _ kill Cersei Lannister and reclaim your rightful throne. All seven kingdoms will bow to  _ you,  _ their savior,” Melisandre lies. “But it will require a sacrifice.”

Daenerys is sitting up straighter now- the blankets have fallen to her lap, and she’s brushing her hair out of her face. “What kind of sacrifice?” she asks warily. 

“The Night King is an ancient enemy. His defeat requires the sacrifice of someone with an equally ancient lineage. Someone with the blood of the First Men running in their veins. Do you understand, your Grace?”

Melisandre sees the exact moment when Daenerys’ eyes become bright with understanding. The girl believes her. But there’s still some trepidation as she says, “Jon won’t like it.”

“He hasn’t had to make the sacrifices you’ve made, your Grace. He hasn’t suffered the way you’ve suffered. We shouldn’t tell him of this until the ritual is complete. Afterwards, when the Night King has been vanquished, and the realm is safe, he’ll understand that we did what was necessary to win the war.”

The firelight dances across Daenerys’ face, gilding her features in one moment, then casting her in shadow the next. Melisandre can sense her wavering. Finally, the girl nods. Melisandre allows herself the smallest of smiles, then says, “All I ask of you is a few good men.”

 

**THE THREE-EYED RAVEN**

_ Dawn _

He has them lay him down in the snow, cradled in the roots of the heart tree. Sansa insisted on installing some guards with him in the godswood. He tried to tell her that it’s a waste, and that the men would serve a better purpose fighting with the rest of the army on the field. “I’m the three-eyed raven,” he’d said. “I can protect myself.”

“You’re still my little brother,” she had replied. 

Now he presses his palm against the bleeding face of the heart tree, closes his eyes, and takes flight. Past, present, and infinite possible futures are all woven together to form an endless tapestry. It’s his task to find the right strand, among thousands, and follow it to the end. He has to learn what he must do to help ensure the Night King’s defeat. He has to discover what sacrifices they must make to survive. 

_ The man struggles wildly against his binds, but there’s nothing he can do. The Children of the Forest push the shard of dragon glass into his chest, and the cold branches out with each dying beat of his stuttering heart. He transforms. His flesh becomes frost; his eyes flood blue.  _

_ Uncle Benjen comes riding through the night. His face is pale; his blood is congealed in his veins. He promises to keep fighting for the living.  _

_ Bran’s namesake orders the construction of the wall, and the first brothers of the Night’s Watch swear their vows.  _

_ From the top of the wall, the thirteenth lord commander spies a pale woman, wandering through the wild winter. She beckons him into a bed of snow; he kisses her, and she curses him. His own brothers kill him as punishment for his sins. They leave him bleeding in the snow. _

He needs to focus.

_ Drogon soars above a battle. It’s a barren field of snow; every soldier killed on their side rises and becomes a blue-eyed enemy, raising his sword against his former brothers. Daenerys snarls, “Dracarys.” Drogon soars above a battle, but this time it’s a lush green field, with even greener boys dying upon it. Their blood paints the grass red. Daenerys’ battle cry is the same. _

_ “Burn them all!” the Mad King screams. _

_ Jaime Lannister is riding a white horse across a battlefield. Jaime Lannister is driving a sword into his king’s back. Jaime Lannister is fighting side by side with Brienne of Tarth. Jaime Lannister is pushing a little boy from a window.  _

_ Petyr Baelish is whispering to Sansa in the crypts of Winterfell. Jon catches Sansa as she flies into his arms. Lyanna begs her brother, “You have to protect him.” _

There’s a sudden shout, the clash of steel on steel, and the unmistakable sound of someone choking on their own blood. The raven’s eyes blink open to see the guards Sansa appointed to watch over him being cut down by foreign soldiers. 

It doesn’t matter. He has a task.

_ Ash. Ice. Fire. Frost.  _

_ Grey eyes turning blue. Purple eyes turning blue. Brown eyes turning blue. A blade of ice piercing plain black armor. A girl’s frozen corpse, still clutching her needle. A hand twitching in the snow, the sword just out of reach. The screech of a dying dragon. Winterfell, swarmed with wights. The streets of King’s Landing, cold and abandoned. An empty throne. Silence, except for the echoes of the wind.  _

It’s hopeless. 

_ The Wall is rebuilt. The black dragon’s eyes suddenly blink a milky blue, before the beast crashes into the sea. A Stark banner waving above Winterfell. A woman’s hand, calloused, the fingernails cut short, clutches a hand made of gold. A bountiful harvest. The roots of the heart tree trap the boy in one place for eternity. A lion’s shroud is draped over a woman’s corpse. Jon Snow sits on the Iron Throne. Another woman’s statue is placed in the crypts of Winterfell, dead before her time. Arya crosses the last name off her list.  _

At what cost?

_ An explosion of green light. Cersei Lannister holds the Iron Throne so tightly, it cuts her hands. The people cry out for blood. A single pair of footprints beyond the Wall. Arya stands at the prow of a ship, heading east. Gendry waits in a meadow, surrounded by flowers. Dragons and lions opposing on a map of Westeros. A burning sword. A burning city. The Night King shatters. The two lovers kiss at last. A woman sobs in the wind.  Blue eyes become a darker shade. Blood spreads across the snow.  _

“Bran!”

His guards lie dead in the snow, their throats cut. The red woman steps through the blood as she leads a macabre procession into the godswood. She’s holding a torch and chanting in a foreign tongue. Daenerys’ soldiers drag a struggling prisoner with them. A woman, clad in black, with long red hair-

“Bran! Bran, please, you have to help me.  _ Please.  _ Bran, it’s me, it’s Sansa, it’s your sister!”

The red woman’s voice rings out louder than the Lady of Winterfell’s desperates cries. “Lord of Light, we offer you this sacrifice. As Azhor Azhai killed Nissa Nissa to bring the dawn. Today we offer you the beloved of the prince who was promised, Azor Azhai come again, Jon Snow-”

_ A burning sword. Blue eyes. Blood spreads across the snow.  _

It’s the only way. Everyone will die unless he does nothing. 

The priestess holds an obsidian dagger in her hands. Wights race through the godswood, drawn by the sound of screams and incantations. 

“Bran! Please, I don’t want to die-”

_ A little boy falls from a window. His sister prays for him in the godswood. Her red hair dances in the summer wind.  _

Bran makes his choice.

 

**NO ONE**

_ Dawn _

The war is red, and grey, and white, and black. 

Red, above and below her. The only light is dragonfire, raining down from the sky, cleaving through the dead army like a scythe through a field. The flames are distant at first, then not so distant. As Drogon swoops above her, Arya has to hurl herself flat against the ground to avoid being incinerated with the wights. She’s coated with blood and filth- her hands and face and armor are scarlet, and Arya doesn’t think it will ever wash it off if she survives the night. 

The grey of steel, and of Stark banners, and of the shadows under each soldier’s eyes, and of lifeless grasping hands, reaching through the mist. The mist is everywhere- Arya has lost track of everyone. She calls out Gendry’s name, tries to find Jon, but she’s alone, except for the wights. It reminds her of being blind, reduced to the instinct to kill before she’s killed. She loses herself in it- fighting with Syrio’s grace and the Hound’s force and the Waif’s brutality. Arya has no way to tell if who’s winning or losing. She only knows that she’s still alive. 

The white of the snow falling. It lands on Arya’s cheeks, mingles with the blood and tears. The white of Daenerys’ white coat. Soaring above like she is, she’s untouched, untainted like the rest of them. The white of the Others’ flesh, before Arya drives the dragonglass dagger into them and they shatter.

But the war is black, above all else. The black of the starless sky, of Jon’s armor, of obsidian, of dragon scales. The black of the nothingness which awaits Arya, and awaits everyone she loves, if they rest for even moment. 

The war is red, and grey, and white, and black, until suddenly there is gold.

Jon is fighting the Night King. Arya doesn’t know how she got so close to them- she just knows that she turned around and saw her brother locked in a desperate battle. It’s too graceless to be called a duel. Nothing could be further from a southern tourney, or practicing in the training yard. Each blow could be the one that kills her brother, or the one that ends the war. Jon’s arms tremble with exhaustion, and Arya wonders just how long they’ve been fighting. The Night King is tireless, though. He advances, certain and slow and cruel as winter, and Arya knows she’s about to watch her brother die when-

Jon’s sword ignites. 

Longclaw suddenly burns red and gold, a beacon as bright as sunlight. It illuminates the whole battlefield, drawing every soldier’s attention. The Night King recoils from the light. The whole of the north draws a breath as Jon drives his blade forward, into the Night King’s chest, and sighs as the Night King shatters. 

The remnants of the dead army collapse into dust. The mist immediately begin to dissipate, revealing all the warriors who remain. They stand with their weapons dangling at their sides, unsure of what to do now that there is no enemy to fight. Arya hears someone ask, “Is it over?”

She runs toward her brother, who kneels in the snow. She asks him if he’s all right, but Jon doesn’t say a word. Longclaw was flung away from him from the force of the final blow. It’s been extinguished, and the Valyrian steel is blackened and burnt. Jon holds something in his red, blistered hands- a shard of dragonglass. “The Night King’s heart,” Arya says, recalling the history Bran told her of how this all began.She helps Jon to his feet, and together they survey the battlefield.

“Bring the wounded back to Winterfell,” Jon commands. “And burn the corpses.” Arya that he’s right- they can never be too careful. So as the survivors stagger back to the castle, they’re warmed by the great blaze of the battlefield at their backs. 

They’re let through the gates of Winterfell. Those who couldn’t fight fill the courtyard, searching for their loved ones. It feels like only a moment ago that no matter where Arya turned, she was met with any enemy, but now everywhere she looks, there are scenes of reunion. Mothers clutch their sons and daughters, sisters and brothers exchange happy words, and husbands and wives run into each other’s arms. 

Someone calls out her name, and when she turns to follow the sound, Arya sees Gendry. He’s hurt- there’s a hasty bandage tied around his leg, and he can’t do much more than limp toward her. He stumbles back as she launches herself at him, and she can feel the warm laughter in bellows of his chest as he says, “Are you trying to kill me?”

Arya tells him to shut up, and she  _ doesn’t _ cry. She doesn’t. 

She could spend the rest of her days like this, but eventually she pulls back and lets Gendry lean his weight on her as they make their way through the crowd. That’s how she finds Jon- standing in the center of it all, looking even more lost and forlorn than he used to when he was the bastard of Winterfell. He sweeps his grey eyes over each happy face, searching for someone. Arya realizes what he’s looking for- a beacon of red and gold hair. 

“Where’s Sansa?” Jon asks. 

  
  


**THE KING**

_ Spring _

Sometimes Jon dreams of wolves, of running through the snow, of the taste of the blood in his mouth, of curling up in dark hidden places to escape the cold. Sometimes he dreams of dragons, of sunlight, of flying across the Narrow Sea, of the smell of copper and sulphur. Sometimes Jon dreams of the Night King come again, of the way his eyes blinked a human brown the moment before he died. Sometimes he dreams of Sansa, and of a home that no longer exists. Sometimes Jon dreams of death, of darkness, of nothing. But his dreams never last very long, and he always wakes the same way- gasping, terrified, reaching for comfort from a phantom. 

One such night, Jon leaves Castle Black and wanders north until he finds himself at the heart tree where he and Sam swore their vows years ago.  _ Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death.  _ After the war, Sam had gone south, to see to his mother and his sister at Horn Hill. He sends Jon ravens, sometimes. Little Sam is old enough to walk now, and Gilly is pregnant with another babe.  _ I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post.  _

“Jon.”

At first he think it’s Arya, back to try and coax him to go east. She was always so persistent. But when he looks up-

Surely this is a dream. He’ll close his eyes and wake up in his cold, empty bed. Jon shuts his eyes hard, but when he opens them, he’s still in the godswood. So then he thinks that maybe he died- though he knows that dying isn’t so painless. 

Arya’s words echo:  _ It’s done. She’s dead. _

Then why is she standing in front of him, looking just as beautiful as she did when he last saw her? She’s clad in her dress with the shimmering blue-black scales. Her hair is loose, the long strands shifting with the wind. Her cheeks and her hands are bone white, paler than the snow. There’s a bloodstain under her right breast. And her eyes are cold blue fire. “Sansa?”

She kneels beside him between the roots of the heart tree. She reaches out and cups his face, and he can’t help but lean into her touch, even though it’s so cold that it burns. 

He says, “Never thought I’d see you in armor.”

Sansa smoothes a hand over her skirts, spread out like the sweep of a dragon’s wing. “I never thought any of what’s happened would come to pass.”

“You died,” he accuses her. 

She nods.

“You were supposed to  _ live.  _ You were supposed to be safe. I never thought you could-- I came back, like I promised, and you weren’t there. I was looking for you, but you were gone.”

“Am I supposed to apologize?” she says. If Jon simply listens to her voice, if he doesn’t look at her, he can almost convince himself that none of it ever happened. That they’re sitting in the godswood of Winterfell, and neither of them either died. 

“What happened?”

“We were all in the tunnels. Everyone was so scared, and I was trying to keep them calm. Leading prayers and songs. The time went by so slowly. We didn’t know what was happening. But then one of Daenerys’ soldiers came and he told me- he told me that you were hurt. That you needed me. So of course I went with them. The moment we were above, and they’d gotten me away from the guards, they must have… hit me over the head, or something. I just know I woke up in the godswood. The red woman was there. And Bran. I kept calling to him for help, but I don’t think he heard me. The red woman kept talking about the prince who was promised, and Nissa Nissa…” Sansa gestures to Longclaw. “I died for that sword.”

Jon touches her wrist. It’s still and cold as stone. There’s no heat, no flow of blood, no heartbeat. “I thought I might see Mother, or Father, or Robb,” Sansa confesses. “But you’re right. There’s nothing.”

“I don’t understand how you’re here,” he says.

“I think some of the obsidian must have splintered. Gotten trapped in my heart.”

“So you’re one of them, now. It’s not over. It’s starting again.” Whatever magic the Red Witch used to raise him, Jon can feel it in his chest like a bonfire. All the blood in him is aflame, and he fears it might consume him from the inside.  _ I can’t do it _ , he thinks.  _ Not again. Not to her.  _ He says aloud, “I have to. I have to do it, don’t I?”

There’s no fear in Sansa’s gaze, only absolution. “You have to do what you think is right. You’re the king.”

Jon wishes she would plead with him, question his decisions, fight him on this. What he wouldn’t give for her to undermine him now. “I’m not the king.”

“You will be,” she promises. 

He stands, unsheathes Longclaw. The blade is still black; no matter what he tries, he can’t make it pure again.  _ I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls.  _ It’s with heavy arms that he raises Longclaw. Sansa doesn’t flinch as he positions the point of her breast, the same place where he pierced the Night King. Jon is reminded the reports of how her father died; steadfast, even on his knees. 

“Your last words?” he asks, his voice trembling just as much as his hands do.  _ I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men.  _

She refuses to look away from him. “I love you.”

Jon closes his eyes. There’s the smallest sound as Longclaw hits the snow. He falls to his knees and kisses her. The moment his lips meet hers, he feels the cold begin to enter him. It creeps down his throat like he’s drunk from an icy mountain stream, fills his chest and smothers the fire until he can’t feel the cold anymore. All he can feel is her.    



End file.
